


we don't have to exist outside this place

by thedorkone



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Trapped In Elevator, yes i do get the unfortunate irony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3144977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedorkone/pseuds/thedorkone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why did we stop?” you ask, and you don’t even try to keep the accusation out of your tone. Being stuck in an elevator with Root is exactly the last thing you need right now. “What did you <em>do</em>?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we don't have to exist outside this place

**Author's Note:**

> Alright kids, this is a trapped in elevator story I wrote before the absolute heartbreak of last episode. 
> 
> It's set between 4.10 and 4.11, you know, when I didn't hate elevators yet. 
> 
> Special thanks to [nirky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nirky/pseuds/nirky) for being an amazing beta and holding my hand through this. I can be a special snowflake sometimes, thank you for putting up with it.

You don’t understand how they expect you to stay put in the subway station while above you hell breaks loose. So you get out. You use the shadow map to move around undetected. Manhattan is pure chaos around you, but you’re still careful.

You call John on your secure line as you sidestep a motorcycle totaled on the sidewalk. He yells at you for being out in the open and you yell at him for leaving you benched for so long.  

“There’s no point in playing it safe when the whole city is burning down,” you say, and his silence tells you that he feels the same way. “I’ve gotta do something, John. Let me help.” 

He swears under his breath but he still gives you the name of a number in witness protection. “Shaw,” he starts, and you already know what he’s going to say. You let him say it anyway. “Be careful.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” You pretend to be annoyed but you know he means well. “I’m not the one tackling numbers through windows.” You pause, roll your eyes, “Don’t get yourself killed.”  

 

*

 

You’re too late. Your number’s car is wrecked on the side of the road and all it takes is a glance inside for you to be sure. You’re too late. 

“Fuck.” You wonder how many casualties this conflict between ASIs will cause, and how many of you will fall before all comes to an end. You’re not sure where you stand, but the odds aren’t looking too good. 

People continue to walk around you in a frenzy and you know you’ve gotta keep moving. You might be invisible to Samaritan’s eyes, but his agents are still lurking in the streets, searching for your trail like starved out hounds and you have no intention of letting them catch you. 

 

*

 

You see her in the crowd; she stops mid-step when her eyes meet yours and you can see relief clear on her face. John must have told her where you were, and you wonder if she’s hurt you didn’t call her first.

You scan her for injuries and when you find none something tight inside you unclenches. Your cover is blown and New York is on fire around you, but she’s unharmed and you can breathe right again. 

“I thought I’d told you to stay put.” Root’s scowling at you and you roll your eyes. She looks you over and you know she’s checking for wounds too. 

“Yeah, well.” You glance down the street where a commotion is starting up, “I make a point not to take orders from people wearing bear suits.” You know it’s a dumb remark but out of the corner of your eye you see her expression soften. She looks at you like that’s all she ever wants to do and you don’t know what to do with it. 

Her remark is cut short by tires screeching on the ground and a SUV pulls up at the other side of the street. Whoever it is, you can tell they’re trouble and Root drags you to take cover on the other side of your number’s car as bullets start flying your way. 

You hear Root hiss and see her slump down against the side of the car. She’s been shot, and you feel hot anger burn its way inside you. “Root,” your voice trembles and you glance down at her as you start shooting back. You don’t aim at kneecaps anymore, but when you’re done you’re positive they’re all still breathing. 

“Root,” you repeat, and you see her checking her left side. “Let me see that,” you add as you scoot closer to her.

“No, we have to keep moving. There might be more of them coming,” Root glance’s up at you and you know she’s right, but the way she winces sitting up makes your heart tighten. 

“Alright, c’mon, let’s get you back to the subway station.” You grab the bag you had brought with you and offer her a hand. She stares at it, and then she looks at you. Her eyes search your face for something and you don’t know what she’s looking for, but then she grabs your hand and you help her up. 

“We can’t go back,” she says in a huff once she’s on her feet. “They might follow us and we don’t have the time to lose them.” She puts pressure on the wound and you see her eyes shut tightly against the pain. “There’s a safe house a couple of blocks from here,” she adds, her voice unsteady as she breathes out. 

You nod once. It’ll have to do. 

 

*

 

The building seems dull enough from the outside; a five-story, grey, residential concentrate of anonymity in the middle of Spanish Harlem. The hall is empty when you get in, and a vague smell of stale cumin welcomes you inside. The safe house is on the fourth floor, and you debate whether to take the stairs or the elevator. Root’s labored breath makes the choice for you, and you move towards the elevator. 

You wonder if this is one of Root’s usual safe houses, if it’s here she came after her run-in with the blond bitch from Samaritan’s team. The thought of Root alone and bleeding sits heavy on your chest you and you glare at the elevator doors until they ping open in front of you. 

She’s silent next to you, her right hand still clutching at her side as the doors close and you start ascending. 

 

*

 

You feel her eyes on you from where she’s leaning on the back of the elevator. It makes your skin prickle and the hair on your nape raise. 

“Didn’t anybody tell you it’s rude to stare?” you bark out, and her only reply is a short huffed laugh. You grit your teeth and stare at the display counting the floors, the sooner you’re out of here, the better it’ll be for your sanity. 

Root must sense that, because next thing you know she’s hovering behind you and you can feel her warmth against your back. 

“I can’t really help myself,” she says and her voice is warm honey as her breath hits your ear, but there’s an underlying truth to her tone and that makes you turn towards her. She’s close, so close to you, but it’s the look on her face that has you frowning. 

Her look is ache and longing and tenderness and you feel something stir deep inside you. You’ve never quite felt this particular brand of annoying sentiment before. It’s pulsing and persistent, and the more Root stares at you, the louder it gets. It’s unnerving and unfamiliar and you don’t understand it, but it’s been there for a while now, and you’ve come to associate it with Root’s infuriating presence. 

“Root,” you warn, but it comes out like more of a question and less of a threat than you’d meant. 

She smiles a small smile and shakes her head, and you can’t do anything but stare as she leans closer. Her face is impossibly close and your nose brushes hers as the elevator comes to an abrupt halt. You clear your throat and step away, you know it’s not the time for... whatever the hell it is that Root and you have been doing. You wonder if there’ll ever be a right time for it, when Root’s frown catches your attention. 

“Uhm, Sameen,” she starts, nodding her head towards the display of the elevator. The red number 3 keeps blinking, and you realize you’re not on the fourth floor yet. You glower at it, willing it to stop. 

It doesn’t. 

 

*

 

“Why did we stop?” you ask, and you don’t even try to keep the accusation out of your tone. Being stuck in an elevator with Root is exactly the last thing you need right now. “What did you _do_?” You’re positive this is all her doing, just another way for her to mess with your head. But she glares right back at you, scoffing in an affronted way that you’d find amusing in any other situation. 

“What? Don’t look at me,” she says, and she sounds more offended than she has a right to be. “I didn’t do anything.” 

You stare at her until she rolls her eyes and steps away. She says she’s telling the truth, that she would never do something like this. You keep staring at her, you’re not impressed by her self-justifying routine. 

“Fine, maybe I _could_ do something like this,” she concedes, and her eye-roll is so dramatic and ridiculous way that you can’t even stay annoyed at her. “But possibly at a time when I’m not bleeding out into my shirt.  

She’s got a point and the way she’s holding herself tells you that she’s in more pain than she’s letting out. You sigh heavily and walk over to her, you need to have a look at her wound and you need to do it now.

“And it’s not like I need to lock you in an elevator to get close and personal with you anyway.”

Sometimes you wish you could still shoot her. 

 

*

 

You tell her to sit down and kneel down next to her. There’s an emergency kit in your bag, and it contains everything you need. She takes the jacket off, her movements slow and calculated not to make the pain worse. The shirt underneath is caked with her blood, and you help her take that off too.

The wound doesn’t look too bad, but Root still hisses when you clean it to assess the damage. You put on some gloves and prod the skin around it. There’s a couple bruised ribs and you can tell by the way she trembles every time she breathes in. 

“I’m gonna have to stitch it up, but it could be worse,” you say, and she just nods around a shaky breath. You don’t have any kind of anesthesia, so you try to be as delicate and quick as possible. She’s silent as she pulls through the pain, but you still see the way her eyes close tightly, the way her right hand clutches at her thigh. 

“You really need to stop getting shot,” you say. Her torso is studded with pale scars and you know you’re personally responsible for some of them. You’re not as comfortable with that knowledge as you’d like to be and you try to ignore the bitter taste of regret at the back of your mouth as you keep working. 

“Careful, Shaw.” She’s staring at the ceiling with her head leaning on the wall of the elevator, and her voice wavers around every word. “One might think you care.” 

You pierce her skin with the needle, your eyes focused on the task. “Maybe I do,” you say, and you don’t need to look up to know she’s staring at you now. You swallow hard against the uneasy feeling lodged in your throat and take the gloves off when you’re done stitching her up. You did a fine job, but you know it’ll scar anyway. You wonder how many inches of unmarred skin are left on Root’s body, and the wave of protectiveness that sears through you at the thought is unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome. 

She looks taken aback when you glance up, her eyes searching your face for something you’re still not sure she can find there, but you think that if she did you could be okay with it. 

You grab her jaw and hold her face still, your eyes never leaving hers. 

“You need to stop getting shot,” you tell her again, your voice as steady as your eyes as you pronounce every word so that she _gets it_. You see comprehension dawn in her eyes and you feel her nod against your hand. 

It’s you who leans in this time, and her breath hitches when you press your lips to hers. The kiss is gentler and more tentative than you’ll ever admit to yourself, and you feel Root’s hand on your back as it clings to your shirt. There’s a desperation to her grip that has you frowning again, and it gets to you in a way you were not anticipating. She’s holding onto you like a lifeline, and you can’t do anything but let her deepen the kiss, let her take what she needs because that’s all you know how to give. 

 

*

 

You call Finch. He scolds you like you’re a teenager sneaking out after curfew and you hear Root snicker from where she’s sitting next to you. You explain your situation to him, and he’s silent for a moment. He tells you that John and Fusco are stuck downtown, Samaritan opened all the electrical locks of the cells in the precinct and it’ll take them a while to deal with that. 

“I am on my way to your location, Ms. Shaw. But considering the current state of the city, there is a very tangible possibility that it could take me a while to reach you.” 

“Take your time, Harry,” Root cuts in, her tone sickeningly sweet and overly sardonic. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do to... _entertain_ ourselves while we wait.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. 

 

*

 

You examine the elevator panel, the flickering red number 3 keeps mocking you from the display, and you smash the emergency button repeatedly. 

“You know,” Root starts, sounding way too amused by all this. It makes you clench your jaw. “Somehow I don’t think that’s going to work.” 

You take a deep breath and hold it in. It’s barely been 45 minutes and you already feel your patience reaching the limit. You exhale and turn to glare at her, 

“Why aren’t you doing something about this?” you ask, trying to keep the exasperation out of your voice. You don’t understand how she can be so calm bout this. “You’re the nerd; hot-wire the elevator and make it jumpstart or something.” 

“I’m a hacker, Sam, not an engineer.” She looks at you like you’ve just said the most hilarious thing and you turn away with a groan. 

“Why isn’t your Machine getting us out of here anyway?” You debate whether to stay where you are or sit next to her again. You see her eyes glass over like they do every time the Machine talks to her, but the way they cloud over immediately tells you that is not the case.  

“It doesn’t work like that,” she says, her voice small and her eyes distant and when she looks away from you it feels wrong, wrong, wrong because you know she’s larger than life.You wonder exactly how it works, how an all-knowing artificial super-intelligence chooses a broken killer for hire with a moral code that is questionable at best as its analogue interface and fixes her. 

You sigh and sit down next to her again. Her eyes are still staring unfocused at the wall of the elevator, and you carefully bump your shoulder with Root’s to shake her out of it. 

“How are you so calm about this?” You wonder out loud once her attention is on you again. “The whole city is burning down, hell, the whole country could literally be shutting down as we speak.” You pause, but she’s silent. She’s watching you, waiting for you to get to the punchline. “But you don’t seem too eager to get out of here.”

She’s quiet, and the look she’s giving you makes your chest ache. You didn’t know it was a thing you could actually feel, you’ve always thought it was something people said when they were being overly cheesy. But Root looks at you like she can’t quite help it, like it hurts her not to, and the pressure in your chest cuts your breath short. 

“Maybe I don’t want to get out of here.” She shrugs and turns away, and you’re thankful for that because you can breathe right again. “Would it be so bad if we could just stay here a little longer?” 

You think about New York and the havoc Samaritan unleashed on it. You think about all the numbers you’re losing, and all the others that just keep coming. You think about John and Fusco, trying to contain the damage, but with just the two of them it’s like trying to contain a broken dam with a strainer. You think about Finch, rushing across town to get you out of here before Samaritan’s agents find you, and really, you know that it’s just a matter of time. 

But then you look at Root and you see how she’s hunched over, her arms folded around herself, and she is fragile and vulnerable and flesh and blood. You think about her and all the things you’ve never felt inside you, heard inside you before, and how maybe you just needed a very specific brand of crazy to help you learn how to listen.

 

You decide that maybe staying here a little longer wouldn’t be that bad after all. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Stars - The XX


End file.
